


Breathless Too

by GloriaMundi



Series: Sentenced [2]
Category: Pirates of the Caribbean
Genre: C17, Grammar BDSM, Historical, M/M, Pirates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-07
Updated: 2004-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 17:32:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GloriaMundi/pseuds/GloriaMundi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another 1200-word sentence. (Follows 'Breathless'). Same punctuation:plot ratio.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breathless Too

A fine clear day, and a good wind just west of north, stretching the new black canvas and sending the _Black Pearl_ racing through the sparkling waters of the Gulf -- he'd seen matched sapphires that colour, strung on a silk cord, back on the Isla de Muerta amongst the gathered hoard that Barbossa's mutinous dogs had piled high in their ten-year reign; but any gem merchant would demand a truer blue; and sapphires had never suited him, not the way that rubies did, and so he'd left that king's ransom of sea-coloured stones lying there -- as Jack Sparrow, Captain Jack Sparrow once again, sailed south from New Orleans, heading for Port Royal for no more reason than a dream that came to him night after night, a dream so improbable and yet alluring that the thought of bringing it out into the real world, the thought of making a dream into reality (as he'd dreamt for ten years that the _Black Pearl_ would be his again) amused Jack mightily, amused him and intrigued him and drew him back as though Commodore Norrington could somehow be, not his nemesis but something new; Jack Sparrow was never one to deny the inclinations of his own heart, and his heart knew what his head did not, and he'd felt that pull, that urge to be closer to the Commodore, even while said Commodore was clapping him in irons, locking him in the brig, drawing up that long, long list of Jack Sparrow's crimes (long but incomplete, and the Captain grinned as he remembered how very much he'd wanted to demonstrate some of the omissions to Norrington), insisting on the letter of the law while those green eyes of his -- the colour of the sea in the _Pearl_'s shadow, now that Jack thought of it -- spoke a story that was quite different ... and _that_, of course, was what made Jack Sparrow wonder if, after all, there might be more to this dream than sheer unsatisfied desire; if the vision of Norrington, ardent and shaking and utterly focussed on Jack, might spring from more than his own foolish disinclination to bed a whore or two (or three, he thought, smirking as he remembered that time in Savannah; he'd been younger then, of course, and they'd kept him up all night, as it were -- he chuckled at the memory, and felt the weight of Anamaria's glare: it was almost supernatural, really, the way the bloody wench always seemed to know when he was thinking about sex -- but though he might have less stamina now than he'd had back then, before Barbossa, he'd make up for it, surely, in sheer technique) and after all, only a fool would pass up the proliferous opportunities for debauchery that were available in the fine new city of New Orleans, and Captain Jack Sparrow was no fool, never mind the rum and the reeling and the act; he generally knew what he was up to, and when, as now, it took him a while to come to it, that simply meant that his head hadn't caught up with his heart: and after all, James Norrington -- James, he mouthed silently, testing the name on his lips; it hadn't been difficult to find out -- was such a _pretty_ commodore, and surely Providence wouldn't have put him in Jack's way if he'd been intended to resist that particular temptation, because he might be cunning and subtle and too clever even for himself, but if there was one thing he couldn't resist it was temptation, and right now temptation wore the form -- the immaculately-shod, crisply-uniformed, gilded and garnished and polished and _shiny_ form -- of Commodore James Norrington, pride of His Majesty's Navy, feared by pirates throughout the Caribbean but not by Captain Jack Sparrow, who had felt the heat and tremor of Norrington's hand on his arm when Jack'd leant in too close one time too many: oooh yes, Commodore Norrington was not as cool and collected and impartial to pirates -- this pirate, at least -- as he might like the world to believe, and the world could believe what it liked as long as the Commodore -- James, James -- didn't mind giving it up to Jack, as long as he'd let Jack come even closer, close enough to get past the wig and coat and sword and rank, close enough to come (Jack found that he was smiling broadly at the idea, and Anamaria was scowling at him; Take the helm for a while, love! he called to her cheerily, heading for the cool dimness of his cabin and the privacy of his, well, his thoughts) and the thought of his skin, his bare skin, pressed against Norrington's own paler flesh, the thought of that imperious expression melting into a pleading look as his hands pointed out to Norrington exactly what he'd been missing, exactly what -- Jack devoutly hoped -- he'd been craving, whether he knew it or not; because, to Jack, it was blindingly obvious that the good Commodore didn't spend _nearly_ enough time enjoying the finer things in life, amongst which Jack of course counted himself: and the dream he'd had of the Commodore enjoying him, and specifically the glorious image of being enjoyed by the Commodore -- flat on his back, spread out and pinned by those strong hands as Commodore Norrington stopped worrying about the spirit of the law, never mind its letter, and got down to the basics of what a man could do -- and the Commodore could definitely do him (Jack, sprawling on his bed, writhed and moaned and grinned to himself as he imagined that the hand touching him wasn't his own; it felt wrong, though, and he sucked on his index finger -- sending another surge of blood down the centre of his body to his straining cock -- and loosened the ring that he'd worn for so long, the ring that Norrington's hand didn't bear), the Commodore could most certainly do Jack, and the idea of Norrington -- James -- coming apart for Jack, with Jack, James realising that what he wanted was something he could have, and taking it with Jack's enthusiastic cooperation; he'd bet ten gold dollars that the Commodore would be a passionate lover, energetic and insistent and maybe even playful, willing to do anything, willing -- oh, _please_, thought Jack, moaning again as he stroked himself the way he wanted to stroke Norrington -- to turn the tables, turn himself, and be taken the way he'd take Jack: or, no, maybe he'd like to string it out with his -- his? -- Commodore, use his fingers and tongue and teeth and maybe even some other parts of his body (Jack stretched luxuriously) to tease James Norrington, to drive him wild, to ensure that the two of them need never again encounter one another without the memory of this moment -- that _illusory_ moment, thought Jack distractedly as his body took over from his mind and rushed him over the edge; that recurring dream that he longed to make real, and just as recurrent -- to soften the distance between them: the memory of a moment when their hearts raced to the same rhythm, a moment that -- Jack was suddenly, breathlessly sure -- would ... come.

-end-


End file.
